Lord of the Frayed and Forgotten—

Let me be the hand
that reaches into the alleys
where sagging shoulders carry
the weight of years and winter rain,
where hands are calloused maps
of labor unending,
where faces bear canyon lines
etched by hunger and loss.

Let me see them—
the ones wrapped in coats
stitched with other people’s stories,
frayed at the cuffs,
pockets full of lint
and yesterday’s crumbs,
shoes worn thin as hope
but still walking.

Let me walk among the grit,
the slow shuffle of tired feet,
the stench of sidewalks after nightfall,
the weary eyes that look past me
because they’ve been passed by too often.
And still—
help me see the ember You placed there,
glowing faint beneath the ash.

Give me courage
to kneel beside them,
to let their names
unravel from their lips like confession,
to listen without flinching
when the world has taught them to be unseen.

Strengthen me when passion
burns hot but nerves waver;
teach my body to follow
the pulse of Your mercy
into cold shelter doorways
and broken homes,
into corners where hope feels outlawed.

Let me see these weary ones
as fellow travelers
who know the road is long,
and still believe
that even in the deep weariness,
they carry the print of Your hands,
as surely as sunrise
breaks across a wounded sky.

And when my strength leaks away,
let me keep moving—
lantern lifted,
feet steady.
When bitterness stalls my tongue,
make my voice still speak grace.
When my heart aches with their weight,
be my breath, Lord,
and bring me to them again.

Amen.